Page 46 of Devoted to the Dragon

I force myself to be rational and to puzzle through politics only because my dragon needs this. I didn’t protect her, but I won’t fail her again. “We must break our deal with the king. We’ve never traded in weapons until Bash. Our business has always been pleasure.”

Sloan stops pacing and turns on me. “You’re sure it’s her? Not a wolf in the forest or?—”

“Yes.” My eyes burn.

She lowers herself and places a hand on my chest where the dragon has burrowed her way into my soul. Her eyes meet mine, and she sighs. “The wolves will never touch her. As the heir apparent, I recognize your mate claim. I’ll tell Mother we will honor the rune. Go to your dragon. Keep her safe. They’re not only after her scales now.”

Sloan shifts into the shadows just as the pounding of paws cuts into the clearing.

Chapter 22

Randi

Run.Erik’s dying plea beats in my chest, my legs burning and my feet on fire. I refuse to stop—or think about the fang marks on my shoulder seared with the serpent’s magic.

Wolves’ howls bounce off the trees, echoing in an endless maze of pine. My dragon gave a valiant effort to help me escape when I was captured by the serpent but just as quickly, she has faded, going dark inside me again. It feels as if the shadows watch me, turning my beloved forest into a spy for the serpents.

The Northern Forest is rigged with the king’s traps, and I try to spot them as I go, but I can’t see shit without my dragon's sight. I stumble and force myself back up, cursing how disoriented I feel.

A howl rings out behind me. Too close. I refuse to look over my shoulder.

The wolves are closing in. The serpent has claimed me. My dragon is gone.None of that matters as much as finding my mates.

In the distance, men’s voices.

My breath saws out of me, but I push myself faster.

More howls. Shouting.

Fuck.

Instead of the sounds I expect to hear, the forest explodes with the cut-off shrieks of slaughter.

Not my wolves. Not my wolves.The mantra is the only thing holding in my scream.It can’t be them. It can’t.

I trip over a fallen tree, a rock slicing into my palm. I claw at the dirt as I brace myself, stumbling until I find my feet again. The trees hide the moon, and the sounds of battle fall silent.

Dead silent.

Forcing myself to keep moving, I run through the thick forest until the gurgling sounds of water provide hope. I veer toward the sound, praying my wolves will be at the cave.

They have to be there.

The forest thins, the gurgle of rushing water growing louder, and I spill onto the riverbank. Light returns, the moon allowing me to see bodies strewn along the rocky shore. My heart pounds, fear pushing my legs to run.

Dead wolves are scattered along the rocky bank. I don’t stop, following the trail of foaming mouths and broken necks until I reach a furry mass lying facedown on the rocks, his body half covering a white-and-grey wolf.

I suck in a breath, my hand trembling as I reach to check for a pulse. Gunnar’s dark fur is matted in blood, his left leg badly mangled where the teeth of a snare are clamped into his flesh, the metal chain wrapped around it. Along his side are bitemarks, so many they overlap. His pulse is faint, but it’s there.

A sob builds in my throat, but I swallow around it. Trying not to hurt Gunnar, I push against his bulky frame until I can check on Fennik beneath him. He is breathing, though his fur is speckled with blood and a nasty-looking bite has torn a chunk from his side.

My eyes close for the briefest moment in gratitude, an old prayer spilling from me without thought. Even as I pray, ragefor what happened tonight bubbles from my gut, spewing and spitting. I want to turn around on a fiery scream, blaze a path to the treacherous king, and take his pelt.

I call on her, trying to force her to rise like she did for a moment back in the forest when she tried to protect me from the serpent. She stays silent inside me. I’m weak without my dragon, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have to get us the fuck out of here before any more wolves find us.

I try waking Gunnar, but he doesn’t stir. Cursing, I survey the shore for divine inspiration. How the hell am I going to do this? I flit between looking at my mates and back at the riverbank when an idea strikes.

It takes more time and grunting than it would with my full strength, but I’ve never been more grateful for training in my human form. The stretcher I rig with Gunnar’s uniform tied between two broken logs is rough. I’m winded, in pain, and paranoid by the time I get Gunnar face up on the stretcher. My eyes keep skimming the tree line, my hair standing on end. It feels as if eyes are everywhere.

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